


Neon Kisses

by AllHailProHeroThirteen04102016



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biology Inaccuracies, Blood Kink, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Onesided Attraction, Pansexual Character, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Whiny Bitch MC, YOU'RE WELCOME TO NOT READ IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllHailProHeroThirteen04102016/pseuds/AllHailProHeroThirteen04102016
Summary: People whisper and laugh and mock: "This little girl's love is flawed."Would they like to know?
Kudos: 3





	Neon Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This is creative writing...basically me trying to practice prose.
> 
> Plus writing about what is freaking wrong in some shoujo mangas because most of them are just gross.

Almost everyone knows that the way a child would love can be either superficial or the kind that encompasses their whole life. It takes a bit to know what kind of love they have when they're young and don't know the social cues quite just yet.

The first people I loved were my family. The first time I saw them I loved them, and they loved me back, even if I am an absolute pain in the ass.

The first time I fell in love was when I was three.

I never said anything about it, not when I was too young to recognize affection or recognize that you can feel romantic affections towards the same sex. I was just a kid who wandered off in the swimming pool and was getting bullied by a bunch of seven year olds until a woman interfered. My former friend, when I tell her this story, jokingly dubbed her as a knight in shining bikini. Honestly, I can't believe that I even remember that -- much less the fact that she was very, _very_ curvy.

Guess I was more honest in my tastes when I was younger.

I do get crushes on boys, later in my life. There were plenty of them, and the could've been great playmates for me if it wasn't for the fact that I was insanely weak and sickly as a kid and couldn't participate. So attempts in catching "childhood friend" flag kindaaa goes out of the window. It doesn't help that I wasn't good at identifying my emotions, much less _handle_ them. I was demanding, a little violent, and a crybaby. There wasn't a day where I don't cry.

I cry when I'm rejected, I cry when I'm confused, I cry when I'm startled.

Cry, cry, cry.

There are things that I love that aren't people. Sometimes they are gifts, sometimes they are trinkets that remind me of something and I would store them in my spot in the cabinets on top of my sketchbooks, my drawings and my siblings' drawings that they'd give me sometimes. It was something privy to me and me alone, it was a pocket of privacy in a house of seven people. It was comforting.

Which makes it unsurprising that I started crying when my siblings and parents would touch my stash, throw away my trinkets and scan through the sketchbooks shamelessly, and allude to knowing about the contents and even tease me for it. It's unsurprising that none of them took it seriously when I started crying because I was that kid who cried at the drop of a hat. This happens repeatedly, and they don't feel any guilt for it. I never learn my lesson, I am always tempted to take something that reminds me of something and would still stash it, only for someone to look through it. If I feel any anger, they will shame me for it. It happens repeatedly.

It was only recently that I learned that I'm not childish and stupid for loving my stash, but rather it's normal when someone has troubles connecting emotionally. Objects are more concrete and real than my vague emotions, and represent something precious and private. It is a little ridiculous that I learned about this through _fanfic_ but then again living in a country where mental health is something to be ashamed about can create such toxic environment. Someone told me this: "Privacy and ownership are not privileges that should be denied to someone based on their age or living situations," and that was something I could not wrap my head around.

Years of being shamed for being angry at someone had led me to redirect that anger at myself.

I did not realize that I slowly stopped loving myself as the years went by.

Today, I realized that the first person I hated is me.

Mom gets angry when I cut my hair.

I understand that. I'm supposed to be fit for a role that I don't want when I have long hair.

It makes little sense when she scolds me for having long hair a few years later, but people always made little sense, didn't it?

Regardless, it makes me tear up a little.

I get scolded and mocked for it as well.

I am seventeen, and therefore not legal.

That didn't stop plenty of men and women in my life.

I am not very good at knowing what to do with my emotions, even though I am now better at identifying them. Just because I know what is the problem doesn't mean that it can be fixed immediately, that I'd know right or wrong.

When I was twelve, I had my first kiss.

It was with a man. Not a teenager, mind you, but a _man_. He didn't think that there was anything wrong with it, and neither did I. Until that day, I didn't know there were other ways to kiss other than the chaste touch of lips. But he looked too delighted by it, and some part of me thought that there was something wrong with liking kisses too much so I picked myself up, shook off his bruising, desperate grabs and walked away, avoided him every time I see him.

In the future, I will find a friend in an older woman, holding hands and feeling reassured and happy in her presence, that her hands were slender and gentle as the rest of her were, a far cry from the calluses and rough hold from a man.

When I was fifteen, I had sex with a woman.

She was twenty and pretty, had experience and didn't hesitate to make use of it. I was another teenager who was still struggling with the realization that I am attracted to people regardless of their gender or their sexuality, and was completely blindsided by her advances. I felt flattered when she kissed me, and tried to date me. I was someone who didn't know how to say no, because my experience taught me that people have authority based on their gender, age, experience, education and I'm the stupid one who should follow orders without questioning them.

I didn't it was sex. What I know about sex was being penetrated by a penis -- bare minimum of Sex Ed, something few kids concluded after that particular lesson in Science Class while other thought that sperm can teleport in the vagina -- so I didn't think that there was any danger when she started taking off my clothes as we made out. I didn't say no when I felt a little scared when this woman kissed me like she wanted to devour me, leave marks on me.

After that, she teaches me how to cover up hickeys with makeup. Something inside me shuddered and curdled when she's near me, but I put up with it -- I did not want my parents to know about this. I have a wonderful gay cousin who is mocked and spoken about in disdain, and when he adopted a kid they all talked like the kid is gonna grow up in a bad environment. I do not want to be treated like that. So fear lets me withstand her presence, and as a reward she teaches me how to cover up my eyebags. She kisses me goodbye, leaving a smear of red too near my mouth.

When I get home and take a shower, I'd look in the mirror at the bruises smeared all over my neck, chest, splotches of dusk splattered over bronze skin that sneered " _I was here, I was here,_ " glowing eerily in the orange light and I cried a little.

There were no words to express my relief when she broke up with me over the phone.

It was the last time I cried.

I heard of whispers.

Grandma claims that out of all my siblings, I'm most likely to be the one who will have children early.

Confused, I ask her how she got to that conclusion.

She says a lot of things that didn't make any sense of connection to the topic at hand.

In the end, I somewhat understood:

It was because I loved too easily.

No matter who I had, the slime underneath my skin wouldn't go away.

Sometimes it is still, but the slightest brush of skin against me would make it shift. I would shiver and step away, apologize for being discomforted by the slightest brush.

I don't try to have sex anymore. At best I make out with people who don't mind emotionally constipated teenagers, and maybe grope each other but that was it. But that stopped being an option when I stopped saying no.

Maybe there was something ugly about me, for people to treat me like glass to shatter, make me feel like less, but I have always been less, haven't I? I'm not someone to look at and adore, like my partners. I'm a thing to use until you're bored, the same way I treat my partners.

These days, I usually wear jackets to cover up because I'm too emotionally tired to stare at myself, at my _body_ in the mirror to cover it all up. Some days I would have to use makeup remover because my skin would be smeared in lipstick.

In bed, I would hold my partner gently like they were my treasure, kiss them affectionately like they were my lover, tell them _I love you_ if I sense that they're as fragile and hungry as I am. Sometimes they would come back for my affection and I will welcome them with open arms. When we are spent, I will leave and feel another piece of myself crumble, and later, pulse with phantom aches.

 _There's something wrong with me,_ I'd think to myself when I get back home.

 _A lot of things wrong_ , shedding my jacket and the rest of my clothes.

 _How can I fix it?_ I'd ask to myself, gently thumping over the bright lights of pain on my body.

 _Can I even fix it_ , I'd wonder, tracing the finger-shaped bruises.

For a moment, there was quiet. It wasn't a peaceful calm. There was a quiet rise of _something,_ and it made my head spin. Hickeys glow like neon kisses and it doesn't help the possible headache that was steadily approaching to crash down.

I close my eyes to hold whatever _it_ was, and eventually open them to see

my nails raking against my skin, leaving reddened lines adorning my arms, next to the hand-shaped ones.

I don't cry.

Instead, I stare and feel something within me _shift_ when I see blood wells from the open wound, falling down in rivulets that left a trail of crimson.

The contrast of red against the pristine white tiles was beautiful.

I look in the mirror and

for the first time in a long while, I felt beautiful.

Some of my partners are a bit nervous when I tell them about the blood kink, but one takes it completely in stride and did their best to make me happy.

She was extremely careful, trying to handle to knife over my skin, but I eventually confess that the knife thing isn't working out for me. This had confused her greatly, until I said that I preferred being scratched.

I didn't know that I liked being bitten until this wonderful woman took initiative and left teeth marks on my neck and shoulders.

_It hurts!_

**_Good. I deserve it._ **

As thanks, I shower her with as much affection as I can.

(Before I hurt her again.)

I write in my diary as I wait for my turn.

_Makes me glad that I'm friendly with a doctor._

_This will make sure I will never get pregnant._

I do not notice that this is the first time I defy expectations.

(But I do notice that the thought of being infertile is somewhat freeing.)

Once every week, I go out in the middle of the night to burn my stash.

Some of them are thoughtful gifts from my partners, my sketches, and my diary.

As I watched my most treasured possessions burn, it felt like flames were licking at my wounds, cauterizing the source of the bleeding mess. It was painful, made sure there would be a nasty scar, but it did stop the bleeding.

There was comfort that these would never be seen by my family, but a larger part of myself still felt angry at the thought that I'd never be able to hold or see them again.

_"You're hurting. Why won't you let us in?" Gentle hands swipe under her eye, wiping away a tear._

_"I'm not hurting." I muttered, kissing this lovely lady the way she deserved. The shudder that echoed across her body spoke of her appreciation for the effort._

_She pulls back, giving me a searching look. The green of her eyes pull at the light, tugging at the bundle of colors for the most ethereal shade._

_"But you are sad."_

_"I am not sad," I correct her. She does not believe me, I notice. I smile at her._

_"I am simply wrong."_

These days, my stash is less "what I love" and more "what will hurt the least when used against me" which is a little funny.

At some point, someone in my family saw the bite scar on my shoulder (from that one time it got too kinky) and I gave up trying to wear the jackets.

My siblings didn't give a shit, beyond teasing me about getting lucky when our parents were out of earshot. My parents were angry that I had sex in the first place.

Out of spite, I'd wear a tank top that had a low back, showing off some of the scars from partners being too enthusiastic. The fact that I had _scars_ told them that this was nothing new and I get more judgement for it, get yelled at about teenage pregnancy until I spill that I literally can't get pregnant because I went through an operation. This makes them angrier.

I mutilated my body out of "spite."

Maybe I did.

I don't know.

Their anger is similar to when they violated my stash.

I laugh.

It hurt, but I deserve it.

(I hurt them, I do not know if they deserve it.)

I guess it's the same for everyone:

It hurts that someone will ruin something you own. It's only natural.

Except I don't know who owns me now. Is it my parents, who are angry that I can't have blood-related children? Or is it chilling hands that clench at my shoulders, frustrated that she can't hurt those who had broken me? Both have told me their I love yous.

But what is love, really?

The way that people speak of it, it sounds far too black and white for me to comprehend, or even match with any of my relationships.

Kissing? Hugging? What makes them different when someone pins me down and force me to concede?

From my experience, love is satisfaction and contentment. It has nothing to do with "racing heart" or "sweaty palms," that hormonal reaction and I get enough of that from being pounded into the mattress.

Your thoughts do not matter. Neither do your wants and needs.

And this realization?

Made something within me _shatter_.


End file.
